


Cantilever

by aww_clint_no



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: C/C Motto: Use Your Words, Clint POV, Daddy Kink, Getting Together, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pre-Phase 1, Shaky beginnings, maybe dub-con?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aww_clint_no/pseuds/aww_clint_no
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is 'recruited' into SHIELD, makes his way through the juniors, advances into asset-dom with trepidation, and comes face-to-face with the bastard who captured him in the first place.  All the while, he hears rumours of strange goings on amongst the Level Fives and up.  </p>
<p>Or: The story of how Clint and Phil became an indestructible partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cantilever

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so a few things.
> 
> I tagged this dub-con, because although I think I've written the story to resolve initial plot points, your opinions may vary.  
> In this story, I've envisioned Clint and Phil getting together and forming a strong working relationship well before Natasha is recruited. So, she's not in this story. (Also, I kind of didn't want Natasha to be a plot device where she just exists to push the guys together).
> 
> The Daddy Kink is evident, and the language may bother you, so be forewarned.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, and please enjoy.

When Clint was welcomed into SHIELD, he was subjected to two initiations.  In the official initiation, he was shuffled into a nondescript grey-carpeted and beige-walled conference room, along with a dozen other recruits, and shown a frankly laughable video extolling the virtuous ideals of SHIELD and how you, noble recruit, would be a part of said honourable organization.  _He_ was ‘recruited’ by a SHIELD agent who shot him in the leg, and calmly pointed a gun to his head as he laid in a Sicilian alleyway, practically drowning in a puddle and thinking that this was the night he would be put down like a dog, and washed away in the warm summer rain like all the other scum of this earth. And it was this agent who told him that he was going to decide Clint’s future, with a bullet to the head, or worse, prosecution and incarceration, if he didn’t first get himself killed by the mountain of enemies he’d accumulated over the years.  When Clint didn’t give a particularly positive reaction to those options, the agent smiled and smugly offered recruitment. Clint didn’t think that the agent was particularly _virtuous_.  Effective, yes.  

However, never let it be said that Clint was blind to his own faults, or his role in his own misfortune.  He’d had the walls closing in on him for some time, and several mafia groups from around the world were going as far as temporary cooperation to riddle a hundred bullets in his body.  His contacts dried up, informants refused to talk, and the solo vigilante act he’d been putting up was fast turning into a noose tightening around his neck.  In exchange for money, shelter or information, Clint stooped so low as to start carrying hits on people without caring if they were truly guilty.  Clint didn’t say he thought _himself_ virtuous, now did he?  In that sense, he and the Agent were a perfect match.

He’d taken on a contract hit in Palermo in desperation for some cash, targeting a local garbage collector for blah-blah whatever reason, when he was shot before he’d even reached his perch.  He knew he’d simply been outmanoeuvred by a superior tactician ready to capture vulnerable prey; and now that he was stuck at SHIELD, Clint was relying on his only positive character trait - the ability to scramble, regroup, and survive until the next opportunity for escape presented itself.  It was a skill that held him in good stead for every time a loved one or a source of support - the orphanage, the circus, Barney, Trickshot - inevitably disappeared or betrayed him, and left him to pick up the pieces.  He’d be able to do it again here at SHIELD, _easily._

The other newbs clearly did not have pleasant recruitment experiences, either; they took potshots at the video’s narrator, and mocked and boo-ed the clichéd swelling orchestral music, and one particularly unruly recruit threw an empty paper cup at the screen.  Clint settled in his seat, and allowed himself a small smile.

At the end of the presentation, a SHIELD agent entered the room, stood in front of the screen and wearily asked the group if they had any questions.  Clint held up his hand, and when given the go ahead, he asked, “What’s the regulation for relations between agents?” When the catcalls died down, the agent paused before answering, “SHIELD Code of Conduct does not expressly forbid relations between agents, or assets.  We understand that a healthy personal life is essential to a satisfying experience here at SHIELD.”  The Agent then looked over Clint significantly and smirked, “However, the more important advice to _you_ would be that asset-handler relations are not strictly forbidden, provided there is no indication of coercion on the part of the superior.”  The rest of the cohort turned to Clint then, and one newb even raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated ‘ooh’.  Clint flushed under the attention, unsure as to why the agent made an accusation about asset-handler relationships directly at him.  He’s a newb, and he’s an agent, here to make with the pew-pew and nothing else.  Clint and ‘intelligence’ didn’t go hand in hand.

Thankfully, the unofficial initiation wasn’t a hazing ritual.  Instead, it was a friendly tour around SHIELD HQ, organized by the garrulous Agent Walter Koenig (“Big Chekov fans, my parents”), in which all the amenities were pointed out, as well as the strict lights on/lights out policies for new recruits, and where to locate important HR forms and policies on the SHIELD sharedrive.  As the group was trailing the happily chatting away Koenig down a hallway towards the SHIELD museum, Clint spotted a familiar face in the distance,  and to his shame he shrunk a little.  The man who had captured him, the reason why he was trapped here, was heading right towards him, and it was now obvious to Clint that this guy was far more than just a high-level agent; he definitely was a big swinging dick in this organization, going by the superior cut of his suit, and the way others automatically moved aside to give him a clear path.  Otherwise, the bastard looked like any other public servant, and that stung Clint badly.   Sure, he had a laundry list of international smugglers and crime lords waiting for him outside, but it was nice to know he was in danger from powerful and important people, at least.  Clint had let a fucking bank manager get the drop on him, receding hairline and all, even though Clint realized that the man held a considerable amount of power in this organization, and that mattered, now that he was stuck here. As the man approached the new recruits, he turned his head towards the group, and stopped. Clint was at the back, thanking God for once that he was of average height.

“Recruits, I’d very much like to introduce you to Agent Coulson, a legend in the making here at SHIELD,” Koenig said cheerful pride, sweeping a hand to present Coulson.  “Agent Coulson has had a stellar career, all the way from Level One to Level Five, and he is currently setting a record for successful agent-asset conversions in a single calendar year.  If you do well, recruits, maybe you’ll even have Agent Coulson as _your_ handler.”

_Coulson_ looked mildly irritated at the smoke-blowing, but nevertheless replied evenly, “Thank you, Agent Koenig.  SHIELD doesn’t recruit people who aren’t capable, I’m sure I’ll see some of you in an asset capacity in the future.”  He took a long, assessing look over the group and said, “I’m definitely sure,” before nodding at Koenig with a tight smile and walking away.  As Coulson passed the back of the group, he looked at Clint in recognition and made direct eye contact.  Clint looked back under his eyelashes, hands clutching each other behind his back. 

He hated this part of himself, the part that shrunk under the attention of authority figures.  In his mind, Clint saw himself transform back into that scared little boy all those years ago, cringing away from the yelling, the hurtful words, and the swinging fists.  He’d spent years pushing it all down inside just so he could go about dealing with powerful men without falling apart, but the memories of his humiliation at Coulson’s hands dredged those old feelings up towards the surface.  Before he knew it, Clint hunched his shoulders inwards a little, and bit his bottom lip.  Coulson’s eyes widened for an instant, before he shook his head as if to dismiss some intrusive thought.  He then turned away, and continued down the hallway.  _If I see him again in a hundred years it’ll be too soon,_ Clint thought to himself.  _Fucking creepy weirdo._

“Where were we? Ah, yes! Lanyards,” Koenig began, as he clapped his hands together.  He leaned in, and said very seriously, “Very soon, you’ll be issued your _very own_ _lanyard_.  Lanyards are given to new recruits on a case by case basis…”   

 

———— 

 

In two years, Clint went from Probie to Level Four, and with relative ease.  Contrary to his assumptions ruing initiation, his fellow recruits in his cohort were not all stray puppies ‘rescued’ from a life of crime; he’d had no idea that SHIELD was well-known enough to be a desired career pathway.  Time after time, he’d heard probies talk about ‘doing SHIELD’ for a few years to fulfil some family expectation, before moving on to some pre-destined position in another alphabet-soup government organization, something their nouveau-riche mommies and daddies had wrangled for them.  _Doing_ SHIELD? Clint was _doing_ SHIELD for life.  As successive waves of recruits were welcomed into SHIELD, it became clear to Clint that the circumstances of his hire were quite unique.

All of which was to say, that Clint found combat and survival training to be a total cakewalk.  While others struggled to complete the numerous armageddon scenarios given to them - and the fact that they got so many made Clint fear for the future of the world - Clint was simply able to tap into his experience and summon that sense of desperation that kept him alive all these years.  His long-range skills were through the metaphorical roof, and that was something he was even more confident in.  However, Clint never became too smug about it; SHIELD training also included classroom education, and while he did well enough to pass, it wasn’t a stellar performance by any means.  Give him mission intel and he could recite it verbatim, but he could practically feel the book-learnin’ trickle out his ears as soon as he left the classroom.  

Nevertheless, he supposed his combat skills were what got him fast-tracked through to Level Three, which was when they began to be thrown into real missions.  Once again, given Clint’s extensive history exterminating people for cash, this was not a big deal; what _was_ a big deal was learning to work as a part of a team, and that meant looking out for others and giving a shit if they were in trouble.  The entitled attitude of some of his colleagues was so distasteful to him, that he was mightily tempted to leave them mid-mission at the mercy of Colombian warlords one day, in favour of returning to base for icy cold Coke, just for added irony.  However, by the time he’d reached Level Four, most if not all of the people who weren’t serious about their role in SHIELD were weeded out; the ones who had the backing of a powerful figure stuck around a little longer, but while SHIELD liked a good philanthropic donation, even they had limits. 

Now twenty-four years old, he was starting to feel like an adult; he couldn’t avoid institutionalization, but SHIELD did give agents the opportunity to build personal financial credit in their own name, whether through rent payments for living in SHIELD-owned property, or paying cellphone bills for personal phones assigned by SHIELD for use on the premises (Verizon has constant six-bar service over SHIELD property).  He’d fostered some friendships with fellow recruits, as was to be expected when people had to go through some death-defying assignments together; he also made a name for himself amongst the Level Threes as the perfect sharpshooter, and to his CO’s endless irritation, Clint would play to the crowds a little by giving acrobatic sniping performances on the SHIELD range, interspersed with stage patter and a midshow song-and-dance.  Sometimes, he would imagine Coulson amongst the crowd, or even lurking behind the second floor windows, and Clint would add a flourish here, an extra somersault there, as if to snarl, _Fuck you Coulson, you’ve chained me to this place but I’m gonna win everyone over from the inside._

Over the two years, Clint did hear the odd bit of news about his captor, who truly did have legendary status, amongst the junior agents at least.  Coulson engineered the overthrow of the Latverian government with an army of Corgis.  Coulson successfully contracted Deadpool to SHIELD for 3 months using the logic of the insane, and a barrage of anal jokes.  Coulson was the man behind that mysterious batch of double chocolate brownies that appeared in the junior agents’ cafeteria one morning.  Coulson rescued a crate of ducklings from a burning pick-up truck hurtling towards the Hudson River, which coincidentally had been carrying the exiled First Lady of Latveria, whom Coulson then saved by shoving her out onto the grass, before leaping out himself, crate o’ducklings under one arm.

With his increasing sense of comfort and belonging at SHIELD, having friends where he had none before, and guaranteed food and shelter, Clint could begin to admit to himself that SHIELD wasn’t a bad place to be.  On good days, he flirted with the notion that Coulson taking his choice away from him in that moment had turned out for the best, although he could never go as far as to say that blackmail was justified.  His friends were good people, SHIELD as a whole seemed to have honourable ideals, and even Coulson, if the gossip was to be believed, was some sort of crazy badass hero in a suit.  On especially good days, Clint would even wonder whether he’d just caught the worst of Coulson that night in Palermo, an aberration that Clint was holding against the man as a fatal flaw, when he himself had been descending into becoming an indiscriminate contract killer.

He didn’t have many especially good days, but as he received more back pats and commendations, they became more frequent.  The raging fire in his heart began to dull and dwindle, leaving a comfortable feeling of warmth that brought life back to his soul. 

 

————

 

The promotion to Level Four coincided with an elevation to a new level of workplace gossip.  Whilst newbie gossip had been nebulous and unsatifyingly undetailed (“I heard that the Level Sixes go somewhere in the building to have pool parties, behind one of the gym doors that we don’t have access to”), Clint started to hear one particular rumour that was somewhat shocking, even by his standards.

“Samuels said he heard it again, and it sounded like at least four people this time,” Agent Phillips whispered during lunch one afternoon.  “It’s always a different room, and Samuel swears one voice is always the same.  He thinks whoever that guy is, is the one behind the whole thing.”

“The consensus is that it’s a Level Seven, getting his rocks off with subordinates.  Fucking sick,” Agent MacIntyre replied in angry whispers.

“That’s possible, but Samuels says they sounded pretty into it.”

“That doesn’t prove shit, and you know it.  People who don’t have a choice but to sound like they’re into it, that’s rape.”

“We don’t know that for sure, and we haven’t heard anything about any of the lower agents being roped in, it sound like Level Fives and up.”

“So what, because it’s vets it’s OK? Maybe the indoctrination really sets in, and if we ever get to that level we’ll be brainwashed too.”

“Mac, you’ve gotta stop talking to PsyOps about that shit, if you’re gonna conflate half-baked ideas.”

“Fuck you, I’m serious,” MacIntyre spat. “What if people are afraid to speak out?”

“What if they actually enjoy it?” Philips retorted.

“Do you actually think senior Agents of SHIELD have funtime sex orgies?”

“I don’t even doubt it,” Philips replied.  “What else is there to do here?”

“How did Samuels even get to hear all of this?” Clint finally spoke up.  “Level Four access to the senior agents’ area’s locked down at 8 p.m.”

“He said he rigged up a false janitor’s ID for thirty minutes while he snuck around.”

“Likely story.” Clint rolled his eyes.

The group ended the conversation there, and finished their lunches in silence.  Inwardly, Clint began to worry that his performance was just fast tracking him into a world where shit really got serious.  He’d had a good few years, but he was reminded of why he was here, and why he couldn’t leave.  What if…he was going to have to make more tough decisions in order to stay?

Suddenly the mac and cheese didn’t seem so appetizing.

 

 

**————**

 

Unfortunately, Clint’s professionalism prevented him from sabotaging his own performance in the field, and after another successful year, he was promoted to Level Five.  This was when he was given another unofficial initiation.

His belongings were moved to the senior agents’ quarters, and he had to say a goodbye of sorts to his friends, who nevertheless wished him well, although they said it with a deeper meaning that made Clint shiver.  On his first day as Senior Agent Barton, he was summoned to the office of Assistant Director Maria Hill, and came face to face with Agent Coulson.

“Agent Barton, please have a seat,” Hill said with mild amiability, raising an open hand towards the chair in front of her desk.  Clint sat down; Coulson was already seated in the other chair beside him, one leg crossed over the other and hands folded on his thigh, eyes kept straight ahead towards Hill.

“Barton, we are delighted to have you join the ranks of Senior Agent, and in light of your exceptional performance in the field, I would like to pair you with Agent Coulson here, with the intention of converting you to asset status.”

Clint sat, with his mouth opened, and stuttered, “Ma’am— I mean, Sir, an asset? But I-I—“

“You will be brought up to speed with all necessary aspects of intelligence operations,” Coulson interjected coolly, and Clint couldn’t hide his flinch.  Couson paused, then softened his tone, turning to Clint.  “Barton.  We have been tracking your progress very closely, and it is my opinion that your ability to visualize the wider context will serve us very well, and you have the potential for true greatness.”  Clint tamped down on the feeling of warmth at his words, knowing all too well his desperation for compliments and the dark place from which it had originated.  

“We are also well aware of the circumstances with which you were recruited,” Coulson continued, voice hitching a little at the word ‘recruited’.  Clint looked at Coulson quizzically; an emotion? “And although SHIELD was willing to make sure you would not betray us during your early training, you have more than acquitted yourself in service to SHIELD, and we—“ Hill ahemed, and Coulson continued, “ _I_ would like to extend to you, an amnesty of sorts.  If you do not wish to continue with SHIELD any longer, you will be free to leave.  The original assurance of prosecution will be lifted, and your public criminal history erased.  You will keep your bank accounts and your credit, as a severance package, and you will also receive the utmost assurance that SHIELD will not contact you unless extreme circumstances require it.  I say an amnesty of sorts because it should not have been necessary in the first instance.”

For the second time, Clint was completely flabbergasted.  The one thing he wanted, freedom to leave SHIELD, was placed at his feet.  However, he hadn’t come this far just to jump at the first sign of kindness from fucking _Coulson_ , and it must have shown on his face because Coulson uttered a small sigh, and his downturned eyes became so sad that Clint could feel himself acceding, to his own dismay.

“Barton, I understand cynicism is a professional obligation, and our—“ Hill ahemed again, “ _my_ actions made it a personal obligation also.  I can only promise you that this offer is real, and there is no time limit.  The offer is open to you indefinitely, and even if you refuse it, you will be free to change your mind at any time.”  Coulson stopped, waiting for a reply.  When none was forthcoming, he continued mildly, “In the meantime, if you could please accept our offer of agent-asset conversion, I would be very happy to be your handler.”

Clint felt as if he was observing the room from a distance, seeing his own body sitting in that chair, unmoving while Coulson practically pleaded for him to stay.  He thought, snidely, that if Coulson was being for real, this could be his chance to get his own back and make him pay.  And now that he had the assurance of freedom to leave, Clint didn’t really feel the urgency to go anymore.  He could ride this out, have a bit of fun, and see if he couldn’t break Coulson in the process.

“I think,” Clint began, voice a little rough from disuse, “I’ll stick around, sirs.”

At this, Coulson looked visibly relieved, and wow, they really needed him to stay.

“Thank you for your service, Agent Barton,” Hill said, standing up to signal the end of the conversation.  “We are proud to have you continue working with us.”

_With us_ , Clint laughed inwardly.  _How does the attitude change now that he’s senior._   He turned to face Coulson, and was surprised when Coulson said earnestly, “I look forward to learning from your example.”  What _the fuck_ was wrong with this guy, Clint wondered.  He shot Clint, not that Clint could really disagree with that, he was a fucking lowlife before he came here, and he would have been dead in an alleyway sooner rather than later if he hadn’t accepted Coulson’s offer in the first place.  And now he’s trying to kiss and make up?  Clint knew the score, and he didn’t need coddling.

“Sure,” Clint drawled, and Coulson’s eyes were sad again, and fucking hell, _what_?

“You have three days to rest up and acquaint yourself with Senior Agents policies.  Agent Friedrich Koenig will assist you with any questions you may have.  Monday oh-six-hundred, you will go to Agent Coulson’s office for official conversion training.”  With that, Hill moved to the front of her desk, a clear message to get out.

As Clint left the office, he had a sinking feeling that dealing with Coulson wouldn’t be simple, if his resolve kept slipping against a pair of mournful cornflower blue eyes.

 

————

 

That evening, Clint was walking back to his new digs, when he heard moaning emanating from behind a door.  _Fucking Samuels was right all along_ , Clint thought with a chill.  He hurried back to his room and locked the door. Maybe he was extrapolating; it was only one room, and of course assets would be boning fellow assets, the level of secrecy wouldn’t allow for any other relationships.

His asset training with Coulson was a complete revelation.  Coulson was dryly funny, super-intelligent (well that wasn’t a surprise), well-versed in pop culture (that _was_ a surprise), and a complete Captain America fanatic.  Coulson also turned out to be only thirty-four years old, his reputation making him seem that much more senior to everyone else around his age.  Initially, Clint had tried to push the boundaries, as was his intention during the meeting in Hill’s office.  He’d filled out forms incorrectly, handed them in late, and delivered them via paper plane.  He’d antagonized newbies and sent them on wild goose chases in the diametrically opposite direction of the toilets (there were some unfortunate accidents).  He’d even sunk so low as to do typical frat boy pranks, such as laxatives in the cafeteria coffee and plastic wrap on the toilet seats. 

In spite of all that, Coulson took his behaviour in good humour, usually with a gentle, “I know you can do better than this, Barton,” and although in the beginning of their asset-handler relationship Clint took that as a challenge to construct a better prank, Coulson’s indestructible _goodness_ ate away at his conscience, and eventually he found himself feeling the pang of guilt instead.  One time, when Clint had spiked his coffee with ten packets of sweetener, Coulson took a sip and merely said, “I’m sweet enough as it is, Barton.  Next time, a single packet will suffice.”  Suddenly, Clint didn’t feel like being an asshole to Coulson anymore.

In the field, Coulson was nothing but receptive to Clint’s suggestions, a wild contradiction to his experiences with commanding officers in his earlier career, and Coulson was dependable for decisive action.  He even convinced convinced Fury to allow Clint to use a bow as a secondary weapon, something he’d all but completely had been resigned never to hold in his hands again. At the end of a week spent shaking off the rust from his archery form, he was sorely tempted to just barge into Coulson’s office and bear hug him, because he’d missed this feeling so much, this sense of completeness when he had a bow in his hand, and there was no threat of it being taken away.  As it was, Clint was pulling out arrows from his pin-cushioned targets when he spotted Coulson lurking in the rafters in his standard issue charcoal grey suit, standing very still on a catwalk, hands clasped in front of him.  Clint looked up, and struggled to speak; he hadn’t said thank you to Coulson once, despite the changes in his opinion of the man.  

Coulson simply said, “I’m very glad to see you content, Barton,” a soft smile gracing his face, and Clint lowered his face before his watery eyes could be seen.

Eventually, Clint began look forward to spending time in Coulson’s office, just enjoying the company, as they shot the shit about all manner of topics from global cuisine to the sad state of professional sports. If pressed, Clint would say that Coulson was becoming a friend.

What took him by surprise was the way other Level Fives and Sixes treated Coulson.  They practically had stars in their eyes, peppering their questions with over-the-top superlatives.  _Excuse me, sir, that was amazing sir, we heard about the rescue in Bogota, you’re fucking badass, sir, excuse the language, please tell us how you got out of the cell with a paperclip, you’re astounding sir, you’re the best, sir…_

It was enough to make him hurl.  Coulson was turning out to be quite the good guy, in the context of a secret intelligence organization of course, but the adoration was a bit much, and in Clint’s opinion it indicated a worrying lack of independent thought.  Would these guys even know to think for themselves if Coulson wasn’t around for them to worship?

Clint maintained his low opinion of the other assets, until his ninth mission with Coulson as handler.  SHIELD recon had severely underestimated the number of hostiles, and as a result, the tactical team was short at least five members. Clint had been unable to keep track of all thirty mercenaries that had swarmed out of their safe house like ants before a storm, and he’d let one get behind him.  By the time he’d sensed a presence nearby, it was too late and he’d only been able to recognize a leather-jacketed hand before he was knocked out.  He sat in the corner of a cell, in the middle of fuck knows where, a pile of puke in another corner where he had woken up with the concussion.  Clint tried to keep himself awake, and was currently doing that by berating his lack of situational awareness, when the door slammed open, and Coulson stormed in, suit slightly wrinkled but otherwise looking like he’d just wandered down the hallway from his office, ordering, “Barton. Report.”

“Concuss’n, sr,” Clint slurred.  

“Fuck,” Coulson replied.  “Stay here, do not get up.”  He pressed a finger to his earpiece and barked, “Medics to trace Barton’s tracker, _now_ , concussion reported.”

“Couls’n? B’ck’p?”

“Not required,” Coulson replied softly, coming to kneel next to Clint, who was still leaning against the wall.  “The compound is secured.”

He’s fucking amazing, Clint thought. He came for me, and he did it alone. Like, like, a personal avenging angel in a suit.  Fuck, _now_ look who’s talking in superlatives?

“Hey, no thinking, Barton, keep talking to me,” Coulson insisted, gently holding Clint’s head up with his hand as the medics entered the cell and unpacked their supplies.

 

———— 

 

Clint spent a week under observation in SHIELD medical, and was eventually given the all clear by the neurologist, provided Clint was placed on medical leave for a month.  Clint knows he can be a mouthy stubborn hardass, but when it came to things like this, he obediently followed doctor’s orders.  In that month, without the usual training activities to take up his time, heard a bunch of fucking going on behind closed doors, and he even heard orgies, not that he was listening with his hand cupped to the door or anything.  What the hell was wrong with these people?  Was it the heightened sense of danger that made these people randy as all fuck?  It wasn’t anything like this in the juniors, not at all.  He spent a lot of his daily walking time scurrying down corridors to avoid the noises of groaning and screaming.

He asked Coulson about it a week later, because the man was so on top of everything, he must have had some vital information to share.

“So, Coulson, uh,” Clint began uncertainly, as he laid on Coulson’s couch, folding purple origami ninja stars.  “I’ve been hearing…noises, in the living quarters, at night.  Uh, sex noises.  I know it’s to be expected, but it’s happenin’ an awful lot lately—“

“Barton, is it making you uncomfortable?” Coulson said, looking down at a budget report in concentration.

“No, well, yeah, kinda,” Clint replied, scrunching up a failed ninja star and throwing it across the room and into the small wastepaper basket.  “It wasn’t anything like this in the juniors, and I woulda thought the younger guys would be the ones goin’ at it like rabbits, but—I mean, no disrespect, sir, but I didn’t expect to be bombarded by sounds of love-making.”

There was a strangled, choked-off sound, and Coulson looked up, his eyes sad and so very kind.  

“Barton,” he sighed.  “I should have been more considerate of your needs, and for that I deeply apologize—“

“What? You don’t need to say sorry, it’s not your fault—“

“You're a young adult, and you want to have relationships, and it must be hard to hear those sounds and not be…having relations, yourself.  I’ve been burdening you with too many missions, and too much training.  You must forgive me, Barton, I'm a complete workaholic and I’ve forgotten about your personal needs.”

“What? But—“

“You have my word, I will reduce your workload so you will have more time to socialize.  I guess I just got carried away with having the world’s greatest marksman at my disposal,”  Coulson laughed weakly to himself, looking downward, his ten fingers gently rubbing the desk blotter.

“Sir, you haven’t burdened me with work, the sounds were just surprising, is all,” Clint said placatingly.

“Thank you Barton,” Coulson replied with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  “But still, would you like more free time?  I’m sure you would rather spend more time with your peers than with—with your handler.”

Clint was disconcerted by the tone of the question, sensing that there were underlying implications; he didn’t want to hurt Coulson’s feelings, but…more free time would be nice.

“Uh, maybe if I took one less conditioning session a week? I could take up a hobby to replace those three hours? It won’t shift the balance too much.”

Coulson smiled a little wider at that.  “Trying to avoid an extra ass-kicking each week, good idea.  Go ahead, Barton.  If you would like to shift that balance more, please don’t hesitate to ask,” his smile dimmed, “I’d be glad to do whatever is necessary to keep you happy here at SHIELD.”

 

———— 

 

No amount of needling from Clint could get Coulson to tell him how he managed to take out a warehouse of heavily armed Kentucky secessionists single-handedly and save him that day (“Barton, a magician’s tricks should never be revealed”); he heard from other assets that Coulson lost his gun during the first clash with the enemy, and subdued the rest of them with his shoelaces, but who the fuck knew with those fanboys.  Clint did sort of remember his thoughts during his rescue, and was embarrassed that even _he_ had succumbed to a bit of hero worship.

The funny thing was that it didn’t go away, and it even escalated.  One afternoon a few months later, Coulson had arranged a training session to give a refresher on basic grappling technique, and he proceeded to take each and every asset to ground in less than ten seconds; in turn, each of the assets dazedly stood up, and thanked him for the whooping.  Clint was having none of that bullshit. 

When it was his turn, he and Coulson faced off, fighting stances at the ready.  The room fell silent, and the space around him blurred and grew, until he felt he and Coulson were the only two people who mattered in the world.  They were currently at 18-8 to Coulson in their sparring matches, and Coulson had been going easy on Clint _every single time,_ something he didn’t see the other assets suffering at the hands of their own handlers; Coulson never clutched for more than a second, never gripped hard enough to hurt, always pulled his punches, and always kept his kicks to a quick flick. Each loss made Clint’s ego burn with humiliation and his thigh throb with the memory of the original sin.  

With the world around them faded away, Coulson remained in Clint’s sharp focus, and they stared at each other as they shuffled around the mat, sizing each other up.  Clint’s assessment was the same every time.  Strengths: Excellent control, perfect form,iron defence.  Weaknesses: fuck, there probably wasn’t one, except some bizarre tendency to lose concentration on occasion when he sparred with Clint.  Clint tried not to take that personally.

Coulson turned so his side faced Clint, the ball of his bare right foot digging into the mat, and he raised his left leg to his side, keeping it folded with his shin facing Clint.  He started to lightly bounce on the spot, hopping on one foot with his left leg held up, fists still lightly clenched in boxing defence, his entire body held still as if cast in stone with the exception of his right foot.  Clint was completely taken aback by the manoeuvre.  _The fuck was he playing at?_

 Clint shuffled around faster, looking to tire Coulson out, but he kept hopping lightly around the mat, form still frustratingly perfect.  Coulson hopped forward, and Clint, who was now completely bewildered, could only move away and keep guard for whatever the fuck Coulson was going to hit him with.  Coulson made a few quick flicks at the head with his folded left leg, then out of nowhere, bang!  A kick to the liver, which brought Clint collapsing to the floor, trying to breathe through the enveloping flush of pain.  It felt as if minutes passed, as if Coulson was waiting for him to recover.  Maybe he was, now that Clint had lost again for sure.  The pain in his gut faded to a dull ache, and his breathing evened out as he remained keeled over on the mat.  Then all of a sudden, he was pulled back into a sitting position, with his legs stretched in front of him…

Coulson brought his legs around Clint’s midsection, his feet dangerously close to Clint’s crotch.  An arm slid around his neck, the crook of the elbow dead centre across his throat.  The other arm pressed along his back and head, and strong fingers pressed against his scalp.  The bicep and forearm squeezed his throat, and Clint could feel himself drift and lose consciousness, with Coulson’s warm heavy body wrapped tightly around him, his big strong arm across his neck and his hot breath against the back of his head.  He dazedly thought himself fading away into nothing but pure energy, the weight of his body falling away, and his whole being enveloped in safety…but Coulson released him immediately, and Clint was dizzy and cold.  And terrifyingly hard.

“Barton, are you OK?” Coulson said worriedly, having come around to Clint’s front, and raising his hands to hold Clint’s head.  “Your concussion completely slipped my mind, I’m so sorry.  I’ll get medical down here right now.”  He looked so concerned, his face lined with anguish, and Clint was disoriented by conflicting impressions wrestling for dominance in his mind; Coulson could hold him gently in his hands as if he were a precious kitten, and yet not thirty seconds before, Coulson was about to break him into pieces with those same hands.  Clint began to realize in dawning horror that he wanted Coulson to make him feel both those things again and again, he had never been so exhilarated.

“I’ll be alright, Coulson…s’not after-effects,” Clint forced out between deep, shuddering breaths.  He listed to the side, unable to keep his head up, and Coulson knelt to his side, and wrapped an arm around his back, letting Clint rest his head on Coulson’s shoulder.  “Y’got me good…I jus’…need…to…take a rest.”

With Coulson’s assistance, Clint shuffled to the benches, and sat down next to the wall.  While the class continued on, Clint took deep breaths and his dizziness eventually cleared.  Now sitting at a distance, Clint began to notice certain things.  Like the sleekness of Coulson’s movements in the ring.  The assuredness of his grapples.  The underlying strength in his arms, and the shifting muscles that had begun to shine with sweat.  The steel underlying his sonorous voice as he ordered the assets to do his bidding.  Clint thought back to the complete and utter control Coulson had, as he enveloped Clint’s body, and the erection that had flagged was back in full force.

Fuck, Clint thought.  This was more than simple admiration, or a need for care and approval.

It was just his luck that his realization coincided with ‘fuck night’, although ‘fuck night’ was fast becoming ‘every night’ around these parts.  Horny and frustrated, Clint laid on his single bed, hands folded behind his head, and listened to the noises next door - couldn’t SHIELD have ponied up for thicker walls? - with equal parts irritation and jealousy.  He tried to keep his mind blank, but he had the inevitable thought, and sighed at himself in resignation as he brought his hands down to untie his sweatpants and pull his cock out, already half-hard.  The guy next door, Special Agent Linklater, was a fairly young guy, blond and attractive in a sweet boy-next-door sort of way if Clint was forced to admit it, and it shouldn’t have been surprising that he’d been able to snare a partner for the night.

The moaning increased in frequency, and the bed started to squeak rhythmically.  The sounds of low grunting began to filter through the walls, and fuck if that didn’t get Clint going.  He shut his eyes, moving his fist up and down, as he imagined entering a nondescript woman - he couldn’t even be bothered with a face - and  translated Linklater’s moans into that of a woman’s.  It wasn’t long until the woman morphed into Coulson, writhing beneath Clint in pleasure.  Drawing from the day’s inspiration, Clint imagined strong thighs squeezing at his waist; Clint fought the image at first, shocked at the direction his thoughts had strayed, but he quickly relented, and he turned over and humped the bedspread like a teenage boy.

But then, there as a whimper, and Linklater breathily whined, “Fuck me, daddy…”

_Daddy…_

It suddenly became clear.  The adoration of the Level Fives and Sixes, the sounds of sex behind random doors, there were several older agents but the oldest by a few years was…

Without conscious thought, Clint stuck two fingers in his mouth, practically drooling over them, pushed them into his ass, and pumped away.  From next door, there were low sounds of talking, followed by Linklater’s high-pitched moans.  Clint could imagine Coulson bending over him, growling hot words into his ear as he reamed Clint’s ass with his thick cock.  Clint grasped and tugged his dick with his previously unoccupied hand, his head was twisted sideways and his current position was extremely awkward; his inner voice remarked that this would have been a good time to use a dildo, but he hadn’t bothered to purchase one (no way was he going to _requisition_ one), because he hadn’t had anyone’s cock to fantasize about.  His unexpectedly desperate desire for Coulson overrode all sense of propriety as he succumbed to the thought of a large hand pressing on the small of his back, and a low voice growling, _Come for me, pretty boy…_

And he came hard, pulling his fingers out and collapsing onto the bed, panting and ass twitching.  The sex continued unabated next door, as he laid there sprawled on his bed, trying to regain his breath and blink the black spots from his eyes.  Well, Clint was having a lot of revelations today, wasn’t he?  Firstly, that he had a daddy kink, and secondly, that daddy was Coulson.

Clint thumped the back of his head repeatedly on the pillow.  How the fuck was he going to work with him now?

 

——————— 

 

As it turned out, it wasn’t all that difficult to work with Coulson, because Coulson was his usual friendly, considerate, sardonic self, and Clint just couldn’t reconcile this normal!Coulson with the image of Daddy!Coulson pounding more than his fair share of doting twinks.  He couldn’t.  So he didn’t.  As far as Clint was concerned, they were two completely separate people.  However, going by the rate at which Coulson seemed to burn through willing asses, Clint wondered if he wasn’t going to have to deal with both Coulsons himself one day.

Yet months passed, and it was a year into Clint’s Level Five contract when he started to think that maybe Coulson didn’t think of him that way.  In fact, it was really presumptuous of Clint to assume so.  Coulson didn’t bed everyone, and eventually Clint could tell apart those who simply had deep admiration, from those who were apparently caught under the spell of Coulson’s magic cock.  By Clint’s assessment, the number of the entranced only really added up to about twelve of ninety-five in the cohort.  So it wasn’t a given that Coulson would even want that with him.

And that was totally fine. 

Great, even.

The daily morning jacking off had absolutely nothing to do with anything. He was just blowing off steam.

Professionally, Clint could not have had a better relationship with his handler; together, they racked up a truly impressive number of missions with minimal fatalities and all objectives completed.  Meanwhile, Coulson allowed Clint to participate in espionage missions, at first just as a decoy to get a hang of how these operations went, and then later as an active member of infiltration and reconnaissance.  With Coulson’s guidance, Clint took his natural skill for strategy and applied it effectively, running operations from the ground with ease as he interacted with persons of interest and adjusted the scopes and objectives of the mission accordingly.

Clint’s Level Six promotion came on his twenty-sixth birthday, a present from Hill and Coulson along with a bottle of high-quality bourbon.  “You guys know just what to give a corn-fed farm boy,” Clint had teased with an exaggerated drawl.  “You can thank Coulson for that gift, I gave you the promotion,” Hill replied, rolling her eyes at Coulson.

“I have a better present for you, Barton, please come to my office tomorrow morning and I’ll give it to you,” Coulson said, and the words went straight to Clint’s groin.  That night, he masturbated vigorously to the memory of Coulson saying ‘I’ll give it to you’, and in the aftermath Clint wondered if this was going to be the norm for him for the rest of his life.

The next morning, Clint knocked on Coulson’s office door, and entered when he was permitted.  The morning light filtered through the window and under the half-opened window shade, highlighting Coulson’s strong but smooth hands.  Hands that could bruise, could caress, could stretch him open…

“Barton,” Coulson said, startling Clint out of his reverie.  “You’re…are you…going somewhere special?”

So Clint had primped himself a little, and wore his cleanest, tightest black t-shirt and lowest-slung jeans.  And he may have used a douche.  Sue him.  “Nah, sir, just doing things a lil’ differently today. And by different I mean clean n’ tidy.”

“Wouldn’t want you doing that too often, Barton, or I’d have to beat off the other handlers with a stick,” Coulson mused, casually sifting through sheafs of forms.

The hint of Coulson’s protectiveness warmed Clint inside, and he teasingly awwed in response.  “Does Agent Coulson acknowledge that he needs Agent Barton?”

Coulson hmmphed and rolled his eyes up at Clint.  “Is Agent Barton in need of constant reassurance like a ten-year old boy?”

“Agent Barton would like to hear a little compliment now and then.”

Coulson sighed, and said with complete seriousness, “Agent Coulson would like to tell Agent Barton that he is a valued asset of SHIELD, that his actions in the field have been more than exemplary, and that his career so far as an intelligence officer has been stellar.”

Clint pouted.

“And that Agent Barton is looking quite presentable today.”  Coulson tilted his head as if to say, _happy now?_

“Thank you, D—sir,” Clint stumbled.  He mentally slapped himself as he went to sit in his personal dent on Coulson’s couch.

“Yes, well, I said I had a better gift for you than a bottle of bourbon, and—” Coulson paused to turn his chair, bend over, and pulled up a case onto his desk.  “—Here it is.”

There were only two types of things that were kept in cases like that; musical instruments and weapons.  Since this was SHIELD, the first option was probably out.

“Go ahead Barton,” Coulson smiled.  He placed his hands on the top of the case and tapped it twice.  “Open it.”

Clint cautiously unlatched the case, and opened it, to find the sleekest black recurve bow he’d ever laid eyes upon.  With gentle hands, he removed the bow from its fitting and inspected it with awe.  In the light, the black turned into a dark purple sheen.

“SHIELD was already working on novel weapons materials, I just asked them to fashion a bow,”  Coulson said casually.

“Tell me what design features you asked for,” Clint replied sternly.  “I’m not having any of your ‘it’s nothing’ bullshit.”

Coulson sighed and gave in.  “The entire bow appears to be a single piece, as if from a mould.  Actually, the limbs consist of billions of nano-sized cantilevers, each with specific spring constants calculated from their position on the limbs, your average draw weight, and the predicted mechanical deflection of the bow tips upon release.  When you draw, the cantilevers will be deflected to a known angle; the angle of deflection is directly proportional to your draw weight.  Upon release, all the cantilevers deflect, and the transfer of mechanical energy during cantilever reset has a cumulative damping effect.  As for the riser, the arrow rest and brace are made of SHD-NM-0976, a new material with the lowest frictional coefficient we’ve ever measured; that was a suggestion from the nano-techs, but before they could get carried away with the idea of Hawkeye using their baby in the field, I insisted they laser-blasted the surface a little so you’d have a sensible amount of frictional feedback.  The riser is also irregularly weighted to suit your particular grip and posture.”  At this point, Coulson stopped, and laughed weakly.  “There were a few other things, but that’s the gist of it.”

Clint stared back at him open-mouthed. “The gist. Right.”

“I mean, it’s not like a promotion, like,” Coulson replied, looking away, and Clint had never seen him so unsure of himself. Ever. “And I know you would love to have a hand in the design of your own bow, so please feel free to talk with the techs about modifications to the bow, I don’t mean to impose these designs on you—“

“Coulson, Coulson, stop,” Clint interrupted, his hand raised.  Coulson snapped his mouth shut, and looked up at Clint, his eyes pleading for approval.  Clint had never seen him this vulnerable since, well since the day he promised Clint freedom to leave SHIELD without fear of retribution.  The difference now was that Clint had no intention of letting Coulson suffer.

“This…is the greatest gift I have ever received. No, really,” Clint added, cutting off Coulson’s incoming objection.  “Everything about this bow tells me how generous and considerate you are.  Thank you so much.”

At that, Coulson broke into a grin, his eyes sparkling and crow’s feet crinkling, and Clint felt his heart clench; what he wouldn’t give to see that smile everyday— 

_Aww, fuck._

 

———— 

 

Clint and Coulson went on several missions after that, and the story was more or less the same.  A terrorist cell or macroeconomic equivalent.  A death-defying stunt by Clint.  An equally death-defying rescue by Coulson.  Each of them chewing the other one out, for being so reckless without just cause.  A silent promise by Clint, to protect Coulson better next time.  Silence from Coulson in reply.

 

————

 

The corridors were quiet lately, and since no one had ever confessed to being Coulson’s boy or girl toy, no one confessed as to why the ‘fuck nights’ had suddenly stopped.

Samuels, Phillips and MacIntyre had eventually made it to Level Five, and predictably their first question to Clint was about the rumours. 

“Sorry guys, I haven’t heard anything even close to an orgy since I’ve been Level Five,” Clint said with faux-boredom.  “Maybe a few moans here and there, but nothin’ crazy outrageous.”

“No fucking way,” Samuels exclaimed, as they stood next to the vending machine.  “I heard screams of ecstasy two weeks after you’d been promoted.”

“‘Screams of ecstasy’?  Fuck off, Barbara Cartland.  Now I _definitely_ know you’ve been making shit up.”  Clint made a concerted effort to casually press G3 for a Clif bar, and tried not to growl at the assets. 

“Hey, no need to be defensive,” Samuels smirked, raising his hands up in false apology.  “Or maybe…the fuck train hasn’t made a stop in Bartonville.”

“Two years without relief? Ouch, bro,” Phillips joined in.

“If there even _is_ a fuck train going around these parts,” Clint replied, leaning down to reach under the flap and retrieve the Clif bar, “then if— ow, fuck, why don’t they make these flaps out of rubber?— Then if it didn’t make a stop at Bartonville, it won’t stop at a bumfuck nowhere place like Samuelstown.”

“Whatever, bro,” Phillips yawned, and _when_ exactly did Phillips become a bro? “We’ll see for ourselves, now that we’re _in_.”

“In, yeah, in,” Samuels and MacIntyre agreed vigorously.  Clint could not for the life of him remember what he ever saw in these idiots.

 

The senior agents’ quarters continued to be quiet for weeks, and Clint began to worry that something terrible had happened to throw Coulson off his game.  The adoring assets were noticeably sulky at times, but even they knew that they had to rein it in for the sake of professionalism.  Why that wisdom had been non-evident when they were openly fawning over Coulson, Clint didn’t have a clue.

Clint noticed with growing concern the circles under Coulson’s eyes, and the near permanent frown marring his usually genial face.  He thought it likely that Fury and Hill were overworking Coulson, and of course his libido would suffer.  Clint tried to help, bringing in meals and decaf teas - Coulson did not need more caffeine jacked into this bloodstream - and also reminding Coulson to go to bed.  Each and every time, Coulson would startle out of his working trance, and softly thank Clint for the food and drink with a weary smile that sliced through Clint’s heart and made him want to coddle Coulson for a week until he recovered.

Clint also found that he could no longer, in all conscience, jerk off to Coulson’s image and voice, not when the real Coulson was suffering so much.  As a healthy male, he had regular erections to deal with, but the second he thought of Coulson - and he could not bear to think of anyone else - the erections wilted and Clint was left highly unsatisfied. And sad.

On one Friday morning, after three full weeks of gentle dismissals, increasingly tragic eyes, and a personal set of blue balls, Clint had had enough.

“Sir, please tell me what’s wrong.  Let me help you.”

Coulson startled, and looked at Clint, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed.  “I—I—I’m…don’t worry about me, Barton.  You’re doing an excellent job, and I’ve been filing recommendations in my reports as quickly as you’ve earned them.”

“Sir, I don’t care about that, not when you’re, you’re—“

“I’m not _anything_ ,” Coulson snapped, and Clint took an involuntary step back.  Coulson sighed and softened his tone. “And yes, you should care about that.  Surely you don’t want to be here forever.”

“Well, no? Maybe?” Clint replied, confused.  What did that have to do with anything?

“I’ll be honest, Barton.  You have made incredible strides since your initial recruitment,” Coulson began.  “You’ve matured greatly, and you’ve fulfilled your astonishing potential, both as an asset and a person.  Despite the brutality of some of our experiences in the field, you have remained remarkably positive and uncynical.  Your initiative and level of care for other assets in the field make you a perfect candidate for a supervisory position.  You are, quite frankly, an amazing asset, and an amazing person.  There hasn’t been an asset quite like you, and we are all in a better place because of you.  Really, all that is left for you to achieve here at SHIELD is handlership, and maybe even directorship in the future.

“If you recall our conversation during your Level Five promotion, I had made a promise that you were free to leave at any time.  I would like to remind you at this point that the offer still stands.  If you would like to consider a future outside of SHIELD, I would be more than happy to support your transition, and I’m sure Hill and Fury would be too.”

“Whoa, hey, what?” Clint interjected.  This was happening all too fast.  “Did I ever say I was dissatisfied with SHIELD?”

Coulson looked at him askance.  “Barton, you have never said so.  Even Hill sometimes threatens to leave when she’s frustrated.  You never have.  Haven’t you ever wanted to do something else, travel the world without a mission objective?  You’re still young, and there are so many things you could be experiencing.  I’m just concerned we’re holding you back from them.  You haven’t asked for more free time, or for an extended holiday.  Institutionalisation happens to all of us, and I’m worried…I—” 

Coulson stopped at that, took a deep breath, and rubbed his face with one hand.

“You have given us so much of yourself, and you haven’t demanded anything back.  If you won’t, I will be your advocate.  Fury and Hill won’t object if you want to leave, remember that promise.”

“But, Coulson, don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed working here, with you.”

“Thank you, Barton,” Coulson replied, and fuck if he didn’t look and sound the same way as he did when he had first offered Clint more free time.  Was Coulson actually _wanting_ to spend less time with him?  He seemed so dejected though, so why was he trying to push Clint away?

In truth, Clint was getting tired, and being in close proximity to Coulson without hope of reciprocation was exhausting.  “I don’t know about leaving SHIELD, you’re a big part of why I’m still here,” Clint began, looking at Coulson for a response.  When all he got was those damned sorrowful downturned eyes, he continued, “But I would like to travel.  Maybe I’ll take a few months off, and I’ll be raring to go on another mission when I come back.”

“Absolutely,” Coulson replied, his smile growing.  “Have a rest, take stock, and enjoy life.  You deserve it.”

Clint couldn’t help but smile in response to making Coulson happy.  “I’ll get right on my travel plans, sir.”

Coulson let out a small chuckle, and Clint definitely knew he was onto the right decision.  “Take all the time you need, Barton.”

 

———— 

 

Clint went to Phuket first, and spent a few days on the beach, mind blank.

He went to Taipei after that, and tried all the street food he could stomach (He drew the line at fried stinky tofu and pig’s blood cake.)

Then it was off to Lahore, where he enjoyed the familiar sensation of being lost in a crowd.

In San Gimignano, he sat outside a cafe and thought about what Coulson said.

A month into his big vacation, he realized what Coulson was really saying, and had been saying since he’d reached Level Five.  The promise, the gift, the celibacy, the superlatives, and the deflections.

 

Mother _fucker_.

 

————

 

Phil didn’t look any better since Clint had left; in fact, he seemed to have deteriorated, now no longer even making an attempt to keep his tie straight or his shirt clean.  Clint didn’t care, because he was going to resolve this, now that he knew what the problem was.  A problem that was never a problem except in Phil’s head, for all these years.

“You know I don’t blame you for the recruitment, not anymore?” Clint said as he stormed into the office.  Phil looked up at him in shock, eyes glassy.  _Yeah, didn’t expect me to come back, did you?_

“Buh-wh-wh—“

“And I don’t appreciate being manipulated into a vacation, as crazy as that sounds,” Clint continued.  “A _permanent_ vacation.  That was the intent, right?  You think you know everything about me, but you don’t.”

“I know I don’t—“

“You really don’t.  You don’t know that there is nothing to forgive.  And if I’m as fucking amazing as you proclaim me to be, then my promotions weren’t unfairly fast-tracked by you.  You haven’t coerced me into anything I didn’t want to do, vacation excepted.  In fact, you have rarely denied me anything.  You have bent over backwards to make me feel valued and respected, you have made sure I received sufficient training to become a well-rounded asset, you have been there to rescue me from every one of my stupid stunts in the field.  I know you have gone above and beyond for me, and the question is why?”

“Barton, please—“ Phil pleaded, distraught.

“You were patient with me, even when I had hated you, why?”

“Please, stop—“ 

“You designed the greatest bow in the world for me, why?”

“Please—“

“You tried to give me a new life, even when it killed you to see me go.  Why?”

“Cl-Clint—“

“You stopped fucking the assets, why?”

“Please! Clint,” Phil begged.  “Please don’t make me say it.”

“I need to know, Phil, and you know I deserve the truth.”

Phil clenched his trembling lips together, trying to keep the words from spilling out.  Clint approached the desk, and placed a hand under Phil’s chin, gently lifting his head.  _Be brave, Phil._   “Look at me Phil, and tell me why.”

“I…love you,” Phil breathed out in a whisper, and he shut his eyes and tried to turn out of Clint’s grasp, but he was held fast in place.

“Turns out that sending me away was your biggest mistake,” Clint smiled.  “I always see better from a distance.”  Clint leaned in for a gentle, lingering kiss, registering the moment Phil caught up with the program, opened his mouth in shock, and began to respond in earnest.  Clint pulled away to look at Phil, and said softly, “I love you, too.”

Phil gasped, and he broke into a brilliant smile, his eyes glistening with tears.  “You-you-you—“

“I-I-I do-do-do,” Clint teased, and they both responded with choked laughter.  “No more tearing yourself apart, Phil, because now if you do that you’ll tear me apart too.  Ask me to do anything,” he said, caressing Phil’s face with his hand.  “You’ve never openly asked anything of me besides service to SHIELD.  Ask something for yourself.”

“Stay,” Phil responded immediately.  “Even if you stop loving me, please don’t go.”

“I can do that,” Clint said.  “We’re going to sort out the middle part of that request, but the rest I can certainly do.”

And with that, Clint rested his forehead against Phil’s, and they breathed together in the stillness of the office, just for a little while.

 

————

 

Phil invited Clint back to his room, and was treated to a short history of Captain America, which Clint had never thought he would have any interest in, but he guessed the mere fact Phil was into it was enough to change his mind.  

“And that’s about it, he’s at the bottom the ocean somewhere probably, the skeleton of Captain America is somewhere on this earth, the physical remnants of a superhero to remind us that it is possible to be better than we are,” Phil trailed off at the end, his head down with his hand holding Clint’s, fingers tangled.  “I tell myself that at the end of each day, and I make a promise to be better tomorrow.”

“Settin’ extremely high standards for yourself, Phil,” Clint replied fondly, enjoying the ability to speak Phil’s name with freedom.

“It’s an impossible feat, but the point is to keep trying,” Phil said, looking up at Clint in earnest.

“You’ve been so hard on yourself.  I’ve benefitted from it, and I never realized how guilty you felt.”

“You can’t possibly say I shouldn’t feel guilty!” Phil exclaimed in horror.  “You were blackmailed into joining SHIELD.  You were given no choice.  I have since tried to make amends, but I know I can’t erase something that continues to bring about consequences.  Whenever you’re tired, whenever you’re hurt, whenever you’re bored, whenever you’re sad; all I can think about is how it all goes back to that night.  You are so strong, and so brave, you’ve suffered so much cruelty at my hands, but you found a way to survive, humour and humanity intact.  I think about you, and I am in awe.  Oh God, stop me from talking before I say anything more pathetic.”

“You can’t erase that night, and your decisions,” Clint began, and he felt Phil flinch.  Clint squeezed his hand. Both of them kept staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, as Clint continued. “Because as you said, all actions, yours and mine, continue to have consequences.  But you’ve made amends, Phil, more than enough.  Go ahead and keep feeling guilty about that night, I give you permission.  But don’t you dare regret the consequences.  Everything we’ve done together, has been amazing and fun and a gigantic adrenaline rush, and we have that awful fuckin’ night to thank for it.”

Phil turned to Clint, and buried his head in the crook of Clint’s shoulder, and they held each other as Phil started to sob.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Phil whispered.

Clint kissed Phil’s temple, and gently rocked Phil until the tears gradually ceased.

 

————

 

Two days later, Phil invited Clint to his room again, and they sat on his bed side by side, quiet for a short moment.  Clint turned to Phil, and said without forewarning, “I never pegged you for an orgy kind of guy.”

Phil gasped, and flushed immediately.  He said, sheepishly and haltingly, “I—they—they offered, and I wanted to forget, for a while.  I made it clear that I wouldn’t give them any favours professionally, and they didn’t care.  They said they wanted me, and those were nice words to hear.”

A thought sparked in Clint’s head; he gave a knowing smile, and drawled, “And when the boys called you Daddy? Was that nice to hear too?”

“Wha—how—“ Phil stuttered in abject shock, all modestly forgotten.  “Ohhh, fuck.  You were in your bunk next door.”

“Did you choose Linklater on purpose? To be next door?”

“You don’t even fucking realize,” Phil growled, and _holy shit, it’s different when he can see Daddy!Phil in the flesh._   “You’re the most gorgeous fucking twink I’ve ever seen.  You’ve got these big wide blue eyes and sweet pouty lips.  You look up at me under your eyelashes, and you’re always biting your lips till they’re red, and it’s both the dirtiest and the most innocent thing in the world, and I don’t know whether to cuddle you or fuck you into the mattress.  Linklater was a poor substitution, and it was the closest to you I was ever going to get.”

“That day, at the Koenig initiation…”

“Oh, I wanted to comfort you then, I hadn’t…fully considered how taken I was with you, not until I’d seen and heard your exploits during junior years.  Then we started to work together, and that’s when the guilt hit hard, when I realized just how much I’d lost when I had blackmailed you into SHIELD.”

“Tell you a secret,” Clint smiled, leaning in and sensuously drawing a finger across Phil’s lips.  “I got hard when you put me in a rear naked choke.”

“I’ll give you a rear naked choke of a different kind, right now,” Phil grunted.  “You like it rough, huh?”

“I like to feel you all around me and inside me, keeping me safe,” Clint replied. “ _Daddy_.”

 

They crashed their lips into each other in desperation, and it was awkward and not very pleasant.  Soon, they slowed down to more sensuous, wet kisses, and they explored each other’s mouths thoroughly, while undressing they undressed.  Wandering hands travelled over chests and backs, rubbing nipples and touching hearts.  Crooks of necks were sucked, heads were pulled by the hair.  As they laid down on the bed naked, bellies were nuzzled and raspberries were blown into bellybuttons in playful worship, and they suddenly burst into rich laughter at the sensation.  Phil decided to move to tickling Clint’s armpits, and Clint reflexively clenched his arms to his torso, body curling up and writhing, all the while unable to stop laughing like a hyena.

“Aww, fuck, my—“ Clint gasped, choking out the words in between fragments of laughter, “—stom—ach—hurts.  No, fuck, stop!”  Phil wiggled his fingers under Clint’s armpits again, “No, no more, I can’t take any more! I’m…ahhh,” as he regained his breath, “God, I’m _lightheaded_.”

“I want you to have fun, baby boy,” Phil replied warmly, gently rubbing Clint’s stomach.  “We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Clint felt like he was burning under Phil’s attention.  He pulled Phil down for a quick kiss, and then rolled over belly-down.  “Daddy, I have an ache here.” He spread his knees, raised his ass and wiggled it.

“Let me have a look,” Phil replied.  He spread Clint’s cheeks, and placed a kiss on his asshole.  “Does that feel better?”

“It’s helping.”

Phil proceeded to lave and flick at the hole with his tongue, holding Clint’s hips down with a strong arm.  Clint began to jerk and whine, and after a while, Phil got up and off the bed.  He returned with condoms and lube, tossing them onto the bed and climbing on back behind Clint.  Dripping some lube on this fingers, Phil rubbed at Clint’s hole, before gently sliding a finger in.  Clint sighed in pleasure.

“Have you been practicing, sweetheart?” Phil crooned, sliding a second finger in and slowly pumping the them in and out with the occasional crook of the fingers to brush against Clint’s prostate.  Clint flinched.

“ _Unh_ , yeah, I been practicing, but I couldn’t reach…couldn’t make it feel good like you could.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, boy, I’m here to fill you up good, just like you wanted.”

“Yeah, please, please I need it, need your cock in me.”

“First, I need to be hard enough.  Can you help me?”  Phil moved to kneel next to Clint’s head, and Clint turned to take Phil’s dick in his mouth, sloppily sucking it with abandon and moaning relentlessly.  Saliva dripped down Phil’s dick and collected in his pubic hair, smearing all over Clint’s mouth and chin with every downstroke; the thought of being so filthy getting him harder.  Soon, Phil groaned and gently pulled his cock out of Clint’s mouth, and said lowly, “Lay on your back, baby boy.”

Clint did as he was asked, and bent his legs in the air, exposing his asshole to Phil’s gaze.  Phil looked over Clint’s body approvingly while he put on the condom, and said with shaking emotion, “I…I’ve dreamt about this, it feels like for all my life, Clint.”

Recognizing the break in character, Clint smiled gently and replied, “It’s real, it’s gonna happen, and it’ll keep happening for the rest of our lives, Phil.”

Phil slowly slid into Clint, hypersensitive to any sound of distress or pain, smoothly pushing in and out with greater depth every so often, until he could go no further.  Then, Clint lifted his ass, Phil adjusted to a higher angle of entry, and he was suddenly balls deep.  They groaned together.

From that point, all composure flew out the window, and they fucked hard, the sound of slapping flesh and wet squelches ratcheting their arousal higher and higher.  Clint furiously grabbed at his cock, feeling precum leak all over his hand.  All too soon, Clint felt his orgasm flush through his body, and he came strongly, his ass uncontrollably contracting in an irregular pattern.  The tight clenching triggered Phil’s own orgasm, convulsive jerks emptying the cum into Clint’s warm body.  Phil collapsed onto Clint, sweat sticking their skin together, as they paused to regain their breaths.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Clint was still in Phil’s arms, and they were laying together peacefully, lost in their own thoughts. 

Clint broke the silence, and said, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about how much you’ve been punishing yourself all these years.”

“Well, if you call sex with attractive assets punishment—“

“Phil.”

Phil shut his mouth.

“No, the more you downplay it, the less likely I’m gonna let it go,” Clint continued.  “I know you now, Phil.  Your weakness is your craving for reason, and fairness.  As an agent, that makes you level-headed and empathetic.  As a fighter, it makes you difficult to break.  But you can never be objective about yourself, and your desire to be fair turns into endless punishment for what you think are your faults.

“And I’m not kidding myself into thinking one fan-fuckin’-tastic night of sex will get rid of all that.  But I’m not going away, Phil.  And the first thing on my list of things to do, is finish my holiday.  You’re coming with me.”

“Are you sure, you don’t want to have some time alone to—“

“Phil.”

Phil shut his mouth again.

“Luckily for you, I’m a patient guy.  Until you do something really stupid, and then I’ll fly all the way back from Italy to pull your head out of your ass.  But please, can you show a little faith in us? Just a little?”

“I…yes, I can,” Phil replied with a gentle smile, betrayed by the bright shining joy in his eyes.  “A holiday together would be a good start.  Then we’ll come back…as partners.”

“You think they’ll let us?”

“At this agent level, Fury will make the executive decision.  Chances are that he’ll trust us to be professional.  And he may have already given us his blessing years ago.”

“I knew all this newfound confidence couldn’t have come just from you.”

“Nope,” Phil said. “But I’ll try, and when we get back from Italy…”

Clint held his hand.  “We’ll be unstoppable.”

 

 

The End.


End file.
